THE OLD FARM GATE.
Where, where is the gate that once served to divide
The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road-side?
I like not this barrier gaily bedight,
With its glittering latch and its trellis of white;
It is seemly I own—yet, oh! dearer by far
Was the red-rusted hinge and the weather warped bar.
Here are fashion and form of a modernized date,
But I’d rather have look'd on the Old Farm Gate.
’Twas here where the urchins would gather to play
In the shadows of twilight or sunny mid-day;
For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks of sand
Were temptations no dirt-loving rogue could withstand,
But to swing on the gate-rails, to clamber and ride
Was the utmost of pleasure, of glory and pride;
And the car of the victor, or carriage of state,
Never carried such hearts as the Old Farm Gate.
'Twas here where the miller’s son paced to and fro,
When the moon was above, and the glow-worm below;
Now pensively leaning, now twirling his stick,
While the moments grew long and his heart-throbs grew quick—
Why, why did he linger so restlessly there,
With church-going vestment and sprucely-combed hair?
He loved, oh! he loved, and had promised to wait
For the one he adored, at the Old Farm Gate.
’Twas here where the grey-headed gossips would meet;
And the falling of markets, or goodness of wheat—
This field lying fallow—that heifer just bought—
Were favourite themes for discussion and thought.
The merits and faults of a neighbour just dead—
The hopes of a couple about to be wed—
The parliament doings—the bill and debate—
Were all canvassed and weighed at the Old Farm Gate.
’Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to bound
With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound:
The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim,
But none could leap over that postern like him.
When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making trip,
And the quickly pull’d willow branch served for a whip;
Spite of hugging and tugging he'd stand for his freight,
While I climbed on his back from the Old Farm Gate.
’Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and fame
May come winging our moments and gilding our name,
But give me the joy and the freshness of mind,
When, away on some sport—the old gate slamm’d behind—
I’ve listened to music, but none that could speak
In such tones to my heart as the teeth-setting creak
That broke on my ear when the night had worn late,
And the dear ones came home thro’ the Old Farm Gate.
Oh! fair is the barrier taking its place,
But it darkens a picture my soul longed to trace—
I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp,
And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clasp.
Oh! how strongly the warm spirit grudges to part
With the commonest relic once linked to the heart;
And the brightest of fortune—the kindliest fate—
Would not banish my love for the Old Farm Gate.
Eliza Cook
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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